


The Literary Merit of Myth and Legend

by StarofAntiquan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Will Do Anything For The Sake Of Books, Aziraphale's Angelic True Form, Heists, Holy Water, How The Arrangement Began, Ineffable Husbands Being Ineffable Idiots, Literature, M/M, Pining, Robin Hood and his Merry men, Surprise Scorpions, The Sheriff of Nottingham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 16:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarofAntiquan/pseuds/StarofAntiquan
Summary: When Aziraphale discovers that the notoriously wicked Sheriff of Nottingham has laid claim to one of the rarest works of fiction ever written, he simply cannot let that situation stand - not even if it means agreeing to work together with the demon who's supposed to be his mortal enemy...





	The Literary Merit of Myth and Legend

_ Nottingham, 1193 _

In Aziraphale’s most esteemed and holy opinion, there really was no form of injustice more frustrating than when an unworthy individual managed to acquire a book of exceptional value and significance. Books, after all, were cultural relics, fonts of wisdom and knowledge, and testaments to the labour and skill that had shaped their pages - it was simply unthinkable that the finest of literary masterpieces should be allowed to fall into the hands of scurrilous ruffians who would fail to show them the appreciation they were due!

Well. Objectively speaking, there _were_ plenty of other types of injustice that probably ought to be higher on his list of Evils To Thwart, but that was rather beside the point.

The point, in this case, was that King Richard had been having a rather dreadful run of ill luck while he was off on one of those wretched Crusades he was so fond of (honestly, Aziraphale found the whole business terribly distasteful, but Upstairs seemed delighted by it all - Gabriel was such a fan that he had even put in a special request for a Good Publicity Miracle, the result of which had been that the unusually flattering epithet “Richard the Lionheart” had really started to catch on), and Prince John had been taking the opportunity to sow dissent and discord among the populace in his brother’s absence. Of course, that was all terribly unsporting of him, but the worst part was that one of the Prince’s most loyal minions, the dreaded Sheriff of Nottingham, had dared to move openly against a monastery - a monastery! - that had proclaimed undying allegiance to the absent king, and had claimed its treasures for himself - including an illustrated manuscript dating from several centuries prior, utterly unique in all the world, that was rumoured to depict the tale of the Black Knight, the one rebel that King Arthur’s Round Table had never been able to defeat, and the Knight’s eventual brush with divine ecstasy and resulting redemption.

Oh yes, Aziraphale harboured a great desire to lay his hands on that manuscript and read it for himself. And the Sheriff was so terribly wicked… it couldn’t be wrong to hatch a plot against him, surely?

\---

It had taken Aziraphale several months of planning, numerous visits to the less salubrious areas of town and the surrounding forests, and enough minor miracles to earn him a sternly-worded memo from Michael (which, for once, he had elected to ignore - there were more important issues at stake!), but he was finally feeling confident that he would be successful in his chosen mission. All that remained was for him to meet up with his hired associates to go over the last few details of the plan for tomorrow night-

“Aziraphale! Is that you, angel?” For a moment, a blissful thrill shivered through Aziraphale’s being at the sound of  _ that _ voice (you see, there really was something quite uniquely delightful about crossing paths with the only other denizen of Earth who had been around to see as much of it as he had), before a bubble of embarrassed alarm rose up in his throat and lodged there - if Crowley were to discover that Aziraphale was seeking out a book based on stories about  _ him _ , he would surely misinterpret the entire situation quite unbearably!

Aziraphale whirled around, and sure enough, he found himself face-to-face with his demonic counterpart, who was lounging casually against one of the pub’s other tables. “Crowley! My dear fellow!” Aziraphale was horribly aware that the pitch of his voice was several octaves higher than normal, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it, much to his dismay. “What brings you here?”

Crowley paused before answering, and quirked an eyebrow. “Matter of fact, I was about to ask you the same thing - what’re you up to, with all those sketches and stuff over there?” He flapped a hand in the general direction of Aziraphale’s table, and glancing back, Aziraphale was forcefully reminded that ah, yes, there were indeed diagrams depicting the layout of the Sheriff’s castle, copies of his guards’ rotas and various other incriminating documents scattered all over the table, right where anyone could glance over and see them. Hmm. That really was a bit conspicuous, now that he thought about it.

“Oh! Nothing, nothing at all,” he replied, forcing a chuckle and casually flipping the closest page over to hide at least some of the evidence (and almost tossing his tankard over in the process). “Just, ah… studying. You know, learning about the town - the pursuit of knowledge is, after all, a sacred undertaking, not that  _ you’d _ know anything-”

“Cut the bullshit, angel,” Crowley interrupted lazily, and Aziraphale couldn’t help pouting slightly - he’d been getting into his stride there! It had surely been very convincing! Sauntering over to the table, Crowley plucked up the map that Aziraphale had just unsuccessfully tried to hide and let his eyes trail over it lazily. “Looks to me like you’re  _ studying _ the most efficient way of getting into that castle unnoticed, is that it?”

Oh, that simply would not do. Aziraphale drew himself up into the most dignified, offended, imposing stance he could muster, puffing out his chest and exclaiming, “I cannot believe that you would insinuate - as you well know, I am an  _ angel _ , here on sacred business of the highest - the most secret - and, of course, the very idea that I would - well! The cheek! How very - outrageous!”

Crowley, to his dismay, looked not one whit intimidated - indeed, the corner of his mouth was curling into the spike of a too-knowing smirk. “Y’know, I didn’t imply anything about why you might be wanting into that castle, so no need to deny anything - guilty conscience working overtime, is that it?” he drawled. For a moment, Aziraphale floundered, unsure of how to proceed (he’d never been caught in a lie before - not, of course, that he ever lied, that would be unbecoming of an angel; although it really was necessary from time to time), until Crowley continued, “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the rumour I heard about the Sheriff owning some tremendously important book, now would it? I remember you going on an awful rant about how much you like those old things, back in, what was it-”

“48 BC. Alexandria,” Aziraphale replied quietly.

“Yes, yes, that was it, you were terribly upset about that whole library business-” Crowley’s words were tripping over each other with even more nervous energy than usual, but he paused almost hesitantly for a second before continuing, “anyway, if you are heading into the castle, don’t suppose you’d mind letting me tag along? If you want, I could help out with getting the book, or whatever it is you’re up to, but I’ve some business of my own to be getting on with, so I could stay out of your hair once we’re inside. Y’know. If you prefer.”

Feeling that old emotion rise up within him again, the one that so often reared its head when Crowley was near (fear? apprehension? not longing, not temptation, surely not), Aziraphale burst out, “Absolutely not! Out of the question, Crowley, I’ve told you before-”

But Crowley seemed to know exactly what he was going to say, and was having none of it: “Look, I’ve heard you trot out that sorry old argument about a dozen times by now - they don’t care if we’re not always actively at each other’s throats, angel! Neither your bosses or mine! But, if you’re in need of a little persuasion-” and suddenly, Aziraphale felt a flash of dread; if Crowley were to blackmail him, threaten to reveal to his superiors Upstairs that he’d been using his divine powers for a purpose as far removed from his heavenly vocation as this, there was no telling what the consequences would be - but Crowley simply continued, “Just so happens I have a team of operatives here - great folk, very underhanded, I think they could be a real, y’know, asset-”

The pub door slammed open, and Aziraphale turned to see a cluster of his hirelings striding into the pub: the Friar, with his customary ale-soaked roll to his steps; Will Scarlet and Alan-a-Dale, their eyes darting warily to the shadows; and their leader, cloaked in wool and legend: Robin Hood himself.

“Ah, good,” Aziraphale said primly, hopping to his feet. “Right on time - well, Crowley, I mustn’t keep you…”

Aziraphale trailed off, noticing that Crowley’s mouth had fallen open in shock. A pause. Then, the indignant outburst: “How do you know my associates, angel??”

\--

24 HOURS LATER

_ Will Scarlet crouched beside Aziraphale, his shallow breaths seeming terribly loud in the tension of the moment. Shouts and footsteps echoed through the corridor, but Will seemed unconcerned, and turned to Aziraphale with a smile: “So why didn’t you tell us Mr Crowley would be joining our band tonight, Mr Aziraphale? Don’t get me wrong, I love surprises, and of course I’m delighted to have such a formidable gentleman along with us-” _

_ “Will, my dear boy,” Aziraphale hissed through his teeth, sounding almost like Crowley for a moment, “now is the time for a bit more quiet, don’t you think?” _

With a burst of angelic strength, Aziraphale slammed the heavy treasury doors shut behind them, while Crowley leaned against the stone walls, panting heavily after their mad dash through the castle halls, and gasped out, “Well. Dunno about you, but I wasn’t expecting the scorpions.”

_ Littlejohn streaked past Aziraphale’s hiding place in a blur of burly shoulders, a wriggling bundle of black pincers dangling from his nose as he yowled “Get it off, get it off!” at full volume. Casting about for a friendly face, Aziraphale finally caught a glimpse of Crowley across the courtyard, his expression etched in the same bemusement that Aziraphale was feeling, and began making a beeline in his direction. _

Aziraphale barely heard him - despite all the setbacks, all the myriad traps they had failed to anticipate or evade, they had made it to the Sheriff’s inner sanctum! Somewhere in here, less than a wingspan away, was the tome he had spent so long searching for, had so longed to read…

He suddenly became terribly conscious of the fact that the subject of the book he was seeking was, in total defiance of their carefully constructed plan, standing right next to him. And that he presumably wasn’t going to conveniently wander off in the next two minutes. And that he was therefore going to witness Aziraphale’s unconcealable delight when he finally unearthed his prize.

Suddenly, he was feeling rather hot around the collar - perhaps some of those flaming arrows had grazed him after all?

_ “You go on ahead! I’ll take care of these fools!” Robin shouted over his shoulder, notching three arrows to his bow at once. Aziraphale wavered for a moment, contemplating a quick miracle - but no, actually, the Sheriff’s men were firing so haphazardly that even a surge of divine power could hardly obstruct their aim any further, and besides, Robin had somehow just managed to take five of them out with a single shot - and, of course, there was the book to think about! He turned tail and fled, following that selfish impulse further down the corridor, though as he spun round he almost thought he saw Crowley’s fingers tracing a protective sigil in the air beside Robin; surely a trick of the light? _

The glint of gold leaf on leather drew Aziraphale’s attention towards a manuscript lying on one of the far shelves. He took a step towards it, then paused, still hesitant; and suddenly, Crowley had beaten him to it.

“Whadd’ya reckon, is this that old book you’ve dragged us all here to look... for...” Crowley trailed off as he tugged the book out into the torchlight, revealing the title inscribed on the ancient leather cover:  _ Ye Ballade of Ye Blessingge of Ye Moste Banefull Blackke Knight _ .

Angel and demon alike let out a breath of almost reverent silence, then began speaking in unison: “Ah, yes, that’s the very one, I’ll be taking that now, if you don’t mind!” Aziraphale blurted out, and made a grab for it - after all, perhaps if he removed it from Crowley’s grasp quickly enough, the demon wouldn’t realise what it was, and he’d be spared the embarrassment-

Then he realised that Crowley had just whispered, “Been looking for this for years - thought I’d lost it for good.”

For a moment, angel and demon simply stared at each other in mutually flabbergasted silence; until the doors burst open once more, a cluster of guards swarmed into the room, and they remembered that they hadn’t actually bothered to lock and bar the doors behind them.

Really, thought Aziraphale in exasperation, this heist wasn’t going to plan at  _ all _ .

The guard at the front took a few cautious steps in their direction, crossing himself as he did so, and Aziraphale felt an inexplicable burst of nervousness as he shouted “We do not fear thee, foul fiends!” in a voice that nonetheless shook with fear, and pulled a small bottle from his pocket.

Before he had even given his feet the conscious instruction to move, Aziraphale found himself leaping towards the man, angling his corporation so that it caught every last drop of the holy water being splashed towards them. He did not pause (the other guards might be carrying similar flasks - he couldn’t protect Crowley from all of them, not if they all attacked at once) but drew himself up to his full, heavenly height, letting his wings spread, opening the eyes dotted all over his body, and magnifying his voice to its fullest bone-rattling potential to thunder, “BEGONE, MORTALS! KINDLY DESIST FROM MEDDLING IN THE AFFAIRS OF THE DIVINE!”

Instead of fleeing, as he had intended, all twenty guards crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

Well, he supposed, that did accomplish much the same thing.

Whirling around, relief coursed through him at the sight of Crowley clutching the book to his chest, both safe and sound - though he had never seen such tension wracking Crowley’s frame before. “CROWLEY, MY DEAR FELLOW - er, sorry,” Aziraphale said, and quickly shifted back to his fully human form. “I do apologise - had I known the humans would carry holy water, of all things, I never would have asked you to come with us!”

“Didn’t exactly ask me, angel,” Crowley replied with a strained laugh, an almost incredulous expression spreading over his features. “Seem to recall you actively trying to dissuade me from coming, actually.”

Aziraphale had the grace to look abashed, but ploughed on: “Well, nevertheless, I must insist you get yourself out of here at once - your safety is clearly at risk if you stay!”

Crowley’s eyebrows creased, and his voice was soft when he replied, “The temptation, remember? I haven’t made it to the Sheriff yet, and if I don’t do my job, I’ll be in trouble with someone far more dangerous than those guards.”

Driven by some mad impulse, Aziraphale didn’t even hesitate before replying, “Oh, nonsense, I’ll take care of that for you - isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, anyway? That ‘Arrangement’ you keep trying to talk me into? I’ll sort it out, Crowley, just go!”

There was a pause, charged, laden with meaning. Crowley’s lips twitched, as though he was on the verge of saying something, but in the end, he simply stepped into the shadows, letting them engulf him, and vanished from Aziraphale’s sight.

For a few moments, all he felt was relief, knowing that his friend - his enemy - oh yes, alright, his friend - had made it to safety… until suddenly, he realised that the precious book, the treasure he’d sought for so long, had disappeared into the shadows along with the demon.

The most curious thing was, he almost didn’t mind.

_ Almost _ .

\--

Crowley flicked through the pages of his long-lost masterpiece, revelling in the satisfaction of finally having it back in his hands. It had taken many, many years to craft - shaping the idea in his mind, overcoming the mortification of putting his dearest wishes to paper, willing the words into a form approaching literary perfection, learning the art of manuscript illustration in an isolated monastery and embellishing the pages with the beauty they deserved - but it had all been worth it. He really had been quite heartbroken when some enterprising literature enthusiast had somehow stolen it from under his nose, and despite years of searching, he’d quite given it up as a lost cause.

Turning the final leaf to the full-page, gold-limned, breathtaking painting of the Black Knight being embraced by the personification of heavenly grace, Crowley allowed himself a moment of gratitude that Aziraphale hadn’t managed to get his hands on the book, in the end - it really would have been unbearably mortifying if the angel had opened the book, only to find his own face staring back at him from nearly half of the illustrations. It was entirely for the best that he had probably never known exactly what the book contained - had probably just heard that there was  _ some sort of rare book _ in the Sheriff’s vault, as Crowley had, and been irresistibly tempted by such a unique prize. That was all, surely.

On the other hand, the possibility of a more permanent Arrangement between the two… an idea that Aziraphale finally,  _ finally _ seemed to be warming to…  _ that _ certainly was a possibility full of promise. Really, this ill-fated venture into the Sheriff’s castle had turned out rather well, all things considered.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written for the wonderful Ineffable Con zine; I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
